Reverie
by Cypriss
Summary: A quiet moment is a time for reflection for all the men, and the object of Wade's reflection is one Southern sharpshooter. Major sap.


WARNING: innocent homosexual themes ahead. If this bothers you, don't read.  
Notes: Frankie made me do it. Sorry it's so cheesy, but I was listening to cheesy music. Also, it has not been beta'd. Volunteers?   
  
  
  
**Reverie**  
by Cypriss, for Frankie   
  
  
Wade traveled with naturally long strides that easily matched the pace set by his taller comrades. Even weighed down by all their gear, they moved with professional consideration for all the many aspects of their mission. They put their effort into walking stealthily so as to avoid drawing potential enemy attention, walking purposefully to stay on the right path to Ramelle, walking carefully in avoidance of dormant explosives or cow shit, and walking swiftly to cover as much ground as possible every day. They spent their lives walking.   
  
While the Captain and Reiben maintained a certain sardonic and amiable conversational flow that kept the men aware and mildly entertained, it was intertwined with occasional subdued moments as well. These were sometimes the product of a communal feeling of unease or, at its most extreme, imminent doom. Their napes would blaze with acute sensitivity, the tiny hairs standing erect from goose bumped skin.   
  
It was a rare occasion when simple, relaxed silence overtook them, and they shared a period of easy reminiscence.   
  
The Captain treaded expertly, not missing a beat at the most ambiguous hint of danger. In the humble acknowledgment of his experience and ability, he allowed himself a small breach in conduct by thinking mostly of his wife. He employed various methods of recollection, conjuring up different memories. Today he was rewarded by the distinct scent of her hands after she had done the laundry. On Fridays, when he came through the back door just as the sun was setting, he'd pull her close at the hips, and her hands, smelling light and citrusy, would come to rest upon his shoulders. It was a perfume he only now realized he loved more than any she purchased at the department store.   
  
Mellish didn't taint the quiet, but he would often touch the air with a low hum from the back of his throat, sometimes breaking into mumbled song. The lyrics belonged to songs the others knew from a childhood they'd almost forgotten. Not so long ago, he held them close as any teenager, convinced they applied solely to him. Now they were completely alien to him, and his thoughts were sour as he mocked himself for being such a naive little boy.   
  
It was no secret that Reiben's thoughts revolved almost completely around lingerie and, almost as often, the women who wore it. He spoke what he felt, and even when he wasn't ranting about the injustice of bypassing the Lingerie Capital for cheese in Ramelle, he was thinking about it.   
  
The Sergeant's thoughts were with his mother back home. He wondered wistfully how she was fairing and whether or not she had gotten the last letter he'd sent her. He didn't write nearly enough, and a guilty part of him considered the possibility of her death before he could take care of her properly.   
  
A gentle smile graced Wade's face. He had the shy, inward look of one who has been given a cherished compliment from someone very special. His thoughts were not far away with other people in a better place, nor were they grim. His eyes were focused directly ahead of him, on the smooth movements of the lanky Southerner leading them though the seductive calm of an endless trek. His fingers pressed intimately to his weapon, a quiet worship that Wade wished to bestow upon him.   
  
The medic would always walk a few paces behind, his gaze softly relishing Jackson's every element. He admired the animal lope that sang of innate dexterity, and loved look in his eyes as his sight pierced beyond possibility; his "God-given talent." He even appreciated the consuming faith which the sharp shooter took for granted, a faith that could only stand between Wade and the object of his artless adoration.   
  
Today he fantasized vaguely and innocently as he followed. He imagined the splay of Jackson's fingers on his gun would be firm and remarkable against the skin, and that the simple fervor he bore for religion would be the same he held for a meaningful relationship. The same whispering plea that he used to address his Lord Wade imaged giving rough intonation to a declaration of love or mere sweet nothing.   
  
The thought was such a candid one that it had him unconsciously blushing a fierce red, and he suddenly found himself alert to his surroundings. Flustered and heatedly effected by his whimsy, he urged himself to fix concentrate upon their journey ahead. He did, and was immediately caught by Jackson's eyes.   
  
Wade's face burned when he saw that the Southerner's stare was thoughtful, and that he was obviously attuned to the fact that the small medic had been watching him for at least more than would be considered normal. It was a brief pause for both of them, such that none of the other men noticed, but the moment was significant. The sharpshooter took in his comrade, then looked down for a beat, his lashes skimming his cheeks. And just as he turned back to the trek ahead, he met Wade's gaze completely, and nodded, a rare instance when emotion set his slim features into expression of tender understanding.   
  
  
I think... yes, that was the sappiest thing I've ever written. Awwww... but puppy love's so _sweet_. This is the product of reading too many of Frankie's fics in a row and listening to "Teenage Dirtbag" by Wheatus on constant repeat. Ouch.   
  



End file.
